


Confluence

by femme4jack, fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn, Sakiku



Series: Domesticus [6]
Category: Transformers, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Anal Sex, Bestiality, Dubious Consent, Humor, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Tentacles, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/pseuds/femme4jack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakiku/pseuds/Sakiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Homo Sapiens domesticus: Confluence</p><p>Humans are typically obedient when well-trained.  They are capable of distinguishing between mecha, and may develop favorites or preferences.  When a human is intended for communal use, care must be taken lest it imprint on a particular mech or mecha to the exclusion of others.</p><p>Additionally, some humans develop strong dislikes.  For example, many refuse to service non-bipedal mecha, such as symbionts with technimal frameclasses.</p><p>(Ch.1 is T rated.  Ch.2 and 3 are, uhm, not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confluence

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/noncon archive warning is for the overall themes of this story-verse, which is neck deep in consent issues. We'll continue to use this archive warning on every installment due to the nature of the story-verse. The explicit sex in this particular installment of the series is consensual (or as consensual as possible within the overall story-verse scenario).

The hatchway jangled a greeting as another of Tracks’ regulars poked his helm inside. “Tracks, my mech! How’s it foldi-- by Primus’s lugnuts.”

“Told you there was something off-smelling in here,” Steeljaw said. Blaster hesitated, optics spiralled wide; crouched on one shoulder, Eject craned his helm in unconscious mimicry of his master, curiously peering around the edge of the hatchway.

Tracks … was not his normal pristine, dapper self. The highly detailed gloss of his armor was smudged, as if it had gone unbuffed for several cycles. It was also splattered in places with some unidentifiable, yellowish substance. Which was not, strictly speaking, unheard of, especially if Tracks had just been working on a client. But Blaster had never heard of the mechanic switching to any organic-derived oils or waxes that smelled quite so … foul.

“Uhh … Tracks? This a bad time?” Blaster ventured. He’d never seen Tracks lose his cool before, not even with the most demanding or bad tempered clients. Yet now Tracks’ field was thoroughly fritzed, flaring erratically between frustration and … desperation?

“What? Oh, er--I’m--come in, come in,” came the reply, Tracks waving him in, wide-opticked and distracted. “I was just--I didn’t expect you to drop in today, Blaster, sorry ‘bout the, er, mess …” Tracks began picking up an array of tiny, oddly shaped cloths and other supplies from where they were scattered about on the floor. “Be with you in a nano, I just gotta find where--”

“Oh hey, you got a human!” Eject said gleefully. “Neat! I’ve never seen one of ‘em up close before!” Using Blaster’s arm as an impromptu launching pad, the blue mechkin slid off his perch, pedes skidding down his carrier’s arm-plates until he could launch himself at the nearest table. He latched on to the edge, swinging himself gracefully up the polished steel surface. Darting over, he crouched next to the clear-sided tank--which was also, Blaster noticed, fouled with the same substance.

The human sitting inside didn’t have a field, of course. But regardless, it didn’t seem to be very happy--crouched down in the furthest corner of its tank, staring out at them with its dark, soft-hided features folded up in an uncanny mimicry of a mech’s scowl.

Oblivious, Eject tapped on the clear surface, wiggling his digits at it. “Wow, it’s the same size as me! How much does it do? Does it vocalize? How come there’s only one?”

“Chupa mi verga!” the human spat at him, but otherwise didn’t move.

Blaster glanced at Tracks, who was glaring at the tank, doing his best to imitate the human’s scowl. “Tracks? I see ya got a human … somethin’ wrong?” He knew the mechanic had been trying to obtain one for close to a decivorn. Given how in-demand the little creatures were, he would have thought Tracks would have been a lot more gleeful about his new acquisition.

Tracks … looked harassed. There was really no other word for it. The mechanic set the tiny cloths on the nearest bench. “Oh--I was … it’s brand new. So I was thinking of making an event out of the announcement, maybe offering exclusive bookings for my very best customers … I, uh, hadn’t really decided yet. I just got it an orn ago.”

“Uh-huh.” Blaster cast a doubtful optic over the disarranged bay. “Why don’t you grab a sonic shower and a cube? We’ll put a few things away in here -- the crew remembers where everything’s supposed to go. Don’t we?”

“Aww, Boss!” Eject started, but snapped off his vocalizer as Rewind glared in his direction. “I mean, uh, sure we know where things go.”

“I....” Tracks paused. “Yeah. Uhm, yeah, I guess that would be good,” he said, scrubbing the back of his helm with one hand. The mechkin exchanged glances. Tracks looked like he hadn’t recharged in at least a couple of orn. And that wasn’t good for anybody, especially someone with big holoemitters, like Tracks had.

 _//Wow,//_ whispered Rewind, as the detail specialist headed unsteadily for the washracks. _//Didn’t realize these things were so hard to take care of.//_

“They’re not, usually,” Steeljaw commented as the washrack hatch slid shut behind Tracks. He leapt up to the tabletop with easy, liquid strength. His lack of dextrous manipulating digits typically exempted him from cleanup duty, and he took full advantage of that fact. “Not when you keep them together, in groups. Imagine a cohort with just a single jumpframe.”

“Ugh, they’re neurotic enough in pairs,” grumped Eject, hopping down off the table to start collecting the small bits of fabric scattered over the floor. Steeljaw prowled up to the wall of the cage, put a paw on the glass, rearing back to scent at the odd mix of organic pheromones drifting up from the open top of the cube.

Steeljaw was on the large side for a bladeframe, very solidly built, sacrificing speed for strength and endurance. His back would have come to the middle of the human’s chest, if the organic stood upright. Still, it was obvious just from his sensor arrays that Steeljaw was built for tracking, not for combat -- and yet the human flinched back inside its featureless cage, its fear both obvious and out of proportion.

“So how come we’ve got just a single one of the organics here?” Rewind asked, climbing a table to put canisters of chromatic nanites away. “Anybody got any data on these critters?”

“Not really--they’re so new, there’s just not much out there for ‘em,” Eject called over his shoulder. “No chronicler-cohorts have made it to their planet yet, and xenosciencey stuff ain’t my thing.” The blue mechkin switched to an open channel, pulling the still-docked member of their cohort into the conversation _. //Ramhorn, you’ve dabbled in xeno-exploration studies, right? Whatcha got? Anything?//_

_// … //_

_//Ramhorn? Rammie? Wakey wakey …. priority call for Ramalamadingdong ….//_ Eject persisted, warbling his comm into off-kilter frequencies. Blaster winced. 

_//Ramhorn, my main mech …. save my poor audials and join the party.//_

_// … shouldn’t encourage him,//_ the hornframe eventually grumbled at his Master, rousing reluctantly from his recharge cycle. 

_//I know, but for once Eject’s got a point. And poor Tracks needs all the help he can get. Ya got anything that might help?//_

There was silence as Ramhorn considered the request. Knowing that the hornframe would answer only in his own good time, Blaster kept moving, picking up disarranged tools and stowing them away.

 _//Steeljaw’s right. First contact surveys say humans are a highly eusocial species. Don’t do well in isolation.//_ Ramhorn considered the sensory impressions he was receiving from the others. _//Adaptable, but frames’re pretty fragile. Social grooming and communication’s a big thing for them. Probably doesn’t like being dirty. When did Tracks fuel it last, anyway?//_

 _//Good point.//_ If a little organic was anything like a symbiont, empty tanks were definitely going to make it cranky. _//Does it need any special additives?//_

 _//Probably won’t take energon. Most organics don’t,//_ Ramhorn hazarded. _//You could try dihydrogen oxide -- a lot of organics use it both as their coolant and their preferred cleansing solvent.//_

“What about this?” Rewind said, triumphantly lifting a small cube overhead. The gray-and-white mechkin had found a whole storage crate of them -- some kind of squishy substance, made generally of the same carbon-dense compounds as the organic.

“Maybe,” Blaster said, taking the little block of carbon compounds to better examine it. The human stood unsteadily, and looked between Blaster and Steeljaw, its soft-hided features pinched and worried-looking. “Might as well try both?” Blaster selected a cube from the dispenser, filled it a third full with liquid water from the multi-solvent tap, then after a moment of consideration, blurted a line of code to reduce the height of the cube’s walls. The result was a pan about a mechanometer across and half that deep.

“Alright, now. Watch it, make sure it doesn’t run off. Tracks would have all our sparkplugs.” Blaster set both the large cube of liquid and the tiny one of carbon compounds on the table, and then with care, curled his fingers around the corner of the human’s cage and gradually tipped it over, onto its side.

The organic huddled in its tilting cube as long as it could, then scurried out, darting around to put the bulk of the cube between it and Steeljaw. The bladeframe tilted his head, heavy-maned with sensory spines, then deliberately and slowly laid down, underchassis against the tabletop and paws lazily curled. The organic looked between him and the cubes, muttering to itself, but ignored Blaster almost entirely.

“Strange,” said Steeljaw. “It does seem rather frightened.” Even the mechkin could probably smell the creature’s fear. Steeljaw let a gear coupling slip, so that his internal rotors rubbed a little, producing the rumbling tone of a purring engine that some hatchlings found soothing. “Is it wild? And what does ‘nice kitty’ mean?”

“Don’t think it’s wild, my mech. Got Tower Iacon’s mark right on it. See on the pede? They don’t let untrained ones slip through, especially not Tower-grade,” Blaster said, as he rifled through the cleaning drones, formatting them to sterilize surfaces. He hoped that hot solvent would suffice to get the smell out of the workspaces. Poor Tracks. “I’ll put out a thread to our regular brokers. There’s gotta be some more complete files on these things.”

“Nice kitty,” the human repeated several more times, edging around the side of its overturned cage to peer at the two offerings on the table, keeping the large cube always between it and the bladeframe.

Steeljaw huffed and laid his chinplates on the table. “ _Nice kitty_ ,” he tried, mimicking the organic’s speech.

The human froze, swallowed heavily. Then he yelped as Blaster reached out and picked up the soiled cage-cube and went to dispose of the thing in the nearest recycler, leaving the human with nothing at all behind which to hide. The human straightened itself, hands curled into determined fists. “Fuckin’ well better be a nice kitty,” it said, and scurried to the edge of the shallow, water-filled cube. It folded itself down onto its pedes there, and, pushing its long, grimy helm fur back with one hand, bent its helm to drink.

Oddly, the creature didn’t dab at the pool with its glossa, but rather put its soft, mobile lip plates right on the surface of the liquid. And then, performing a complicated-looking maneuver with lips and throat and jaw, it sucked the water into its buccal unit.

Absorbed in watching the intricate play of organic tensors and struts, it took Steeljaw a little time to realize that the human was swallowing quite a lot of water, really. “Should it be consuming this much solvent?” Steeljaw asked, worried. The human had already quaffed a full tankful, for a mechkin. Maybe it had larger internal reservoirs?

“Not sure,” Blaster replied, watching the human on the periphery of his optical range. A carrier--especially one with a cohort like his--got really good at paying attention to his cohort even when appearing not to, and the further he stayed away, the more the human seemed to relax. “Ramhorn?”

 _//Its organic structures contain at least sixty percent dihydrogen oxide. Probably was just running dry,//_ Ramhorn replied acerbically. _//Might even be amphibious, for all I know.//_

“Hope you’re right,” Steeljaw said, keeping a close eye on the human’s intake. The creature appeared to be ignoring the conversation entirely in favor of sucking up as much solvent as possible. Still, Blaster couldn’t detect any dangerous changes in the little organic’s ventilations or other signs of distress, so he decided discretion was the better part of valor. The human had managed to survive this long, after all; if it wanted to kill itself, there were a thousand easier ways. Cybertron, after all, was hardly an organic-friendly environment.

After a few kliks, the human finally sat back, scrubbing the back of one soft-hided hand over its lip components and venting a sigh. Then it scooted over to the dish of carbon compounds, and after a wary glance at Steeljaw, grabbed for the nearest broken-off piece, tearing it apart and stuffing it into its buccal cavity. Steeljaw watched with unabashed fascination as the creature chewed, breaking apart the substance as if it were a rust stick or medic-grade supplements. It swallowed, then immediately went back for more.

“I think Ramhorn was right. It obviously needed to refuel pretty badly,” Steeljaw observed. The behavioral similarities were uncanny, actually … the human was acting almost exactly like a mech with an empty tank. Right down to the fierce glower it gave Eject and Rewind whenever the two mechkin wandered anywhere near its fuel. Steeljaw ostentatiously looked away, pretending disinterest for the little organic’s benefit. “Still stinks, though. And there aren’t any washracks here in its size.” Tracks had a well-equipped studio, but he didn’t have too many clients smaller than the average minibot. Symbionts and microbots alike had to rely on more specialized facilities, or--in the case of symbionts--their carrier’s assistance. However, Steeljaw didn’t think that Tracks would appreciate Blaster absconding with his precious human, which meant a trip to the nearest appropriately-sized washrack was out of the question. Not to mention how terrified the human was likely to be of Blaster assisting it with cleansing.

 _//Try giving it an alkylbenzenesulfonate,//_ Ramhorn said, still a little irate about having been roused from his recharge, folded securely into Blaster’s center-right dock.

“Hmm,” Eject said, looking through Tracks’ canisters of compounds until he found the detergent. The container was just about the size of a Gambado ball, and he hefted it in one hand. “Hey Rewind, catch!”

“Primus!” The other mechkin dived for it, dodging cleaning drones as they scuttled along the floor. Chittering in laughter, Rewind tucked the canister under one arm and strafed toward the human’s table. The organic had stopped chewing, Blaster couldn’t help but note, and for once wasn’t scowling either. Instead it was leaning forward, ever so slightly, its optics following the antics of his mechkin, bright with … interest? Curiosity?

It drew back a little as Rewind vaulted up atop the table, scarcely needing the climbing rails set into the furniture legs. Vents blown wide with exertion, the mechkin pressed a sensor on the container's side, causing it to iris open, and with a flourish and presented it, his grin stretching from cheekplate to cheekplate.

The human edged back, as though it were waiting for something to jump out from the canister. Rewind, nonplussed, reached in and scooped out a bit of the paste, and then set the canister down halfway between himself and the human before backing up again. Adding a handful of water from the cube, he began to work the surfactant into a foamy lather. He then held out both hands.

The human brightened. Its demeanor and the tenor of its words changed drastically. With effort, it dragged the canister of detergent to the side of the cube of water, and sudsed its hands just as Rewind had done. The organic required no further instruction, scrubbing the lather into its helm fur and the rest of its soiled skin. Then, with a grimace, it climbed over the edge of the cube and into the water. _“Oh fuck fuck fuck -- aaah_ ,” it said, settling itself in.

“I think it is aquatic, after all,” Rewind said in awe, splashing a little at the edge to rinse his hand, marvelling over the way the human could immerse itself right into the water without needing to cycle its seams and systems closed.

“Maybe, but its still venting atmosphere through that rebreather,” noted Eject, joining his class-brother at the side. Rewind splashed a little water at him and he squealed, splashed back.

“Watch its body temperature, guys” said Blaster, tossing the last of the soiled cloths into a disposal pan, then delivering a pile of clean ones to the table. “Organics are usually pretty heat-sensitive.” He looked up as the washrack hatch spiraled open. “Aah, Tracks, my mech, you are looking way more fly. Hey, hope you don’t mind, we fed and watered your little guy here.”

Cleaning drones scuttled around Tracks’ pedes as he stepped out, solvent still dripping from his plating. He looked like he felt better, his field a great deal calmer. Still seemed tired, though. “I... No, I don’t mind, but.... technically, I’m not supposed to feed it until it follows the commands like it's supposed to.”

Blaster blinked, as he emptied the pan of dirtied cloths into the recycling chute. Tracks didn’t have the molecular assemblers installed here to remake the fine organic mesh, but at least he’d be credited for the constituent chemicals at the central facility, where he could pick up freshly-manufactured ones. “Seriously? The instructions say that? Let me see ‘em -- huh.” He looked down to where the human scrubbed itself, while Eject and Rewind played at the edge. They looked so much alike -- the organic resembled a mechkin almost completely, even had a mechkin’s dainty little chemoreceptor unit, right in the middle of its faceplates. And only two optics, like a mechkin.

It didn't seem right to Blaster. He would never, *never* withhold sustenance from a symbiont. The very idea of that... he was easy going as far as carriers went, but it was enough to get his defensive protocols spinning up.

There had to be a different way to get the little creature to cooperate.

"Tracks... these guys have language. They wouldn't've been eligible for trade compacts without class 5 intelligence and some recognizable form of communication."

"Language? I suppose. It certainly seems to scream at me enough. Oh Primus below, I almost forgot," Tracks said wearily. "That medic gave me a data crystal. I wonder..." Tracks unsubspaced a small storage wafer and held it out for Blaster, who would be able to assimilate and analyze whatever was there far more efficiently.

Blaster inserted the wafer into the appropriate dataslot, then cracked a wide grin as he pulled information from the chip with a Chronicler’s customary speed. "Hot diggity! We've got a language. He's been speaking two, actually, and I've got 'em both here, along with ninety four of the most common other ones and dialect variants within those."

Blaster didn't even need to call his crew over. Rewind was already swinging himself down off the table, skipping happily over to his carrier. Most symbionts got to be fairly selective about what kinds of large downloads they liked to incorporate -- Rewind just loved data. He’d take anything: a snippet here, a database there, never inquiring deeply into any one thing before darting off to acquire more. A massive scan-set of obscure organic languages was just his speed.

Blaster leaned down to scoop up his symbiont, cradling him in the crook of one arm as Rewind eagerly irised open the large port set under his chestplates. Blaster unlimbered a primary datacable, and filled that eager socket, fiberoptic cillia threading down into Rewind’s deepest transfer nodes. The symbiont sighed happily as Blaster began his transfer, reserving one thread in order to separate out just the two relevant languages and package that file for easy databurst transfer to Tracks and the rest of Blaster’s crew.

Steeljaw shook his head with a clatter of sensory spines, as he sorted through the dictionary and syntax data his Master had assembled for easy integration. “Each of these languages covers the same subject matter. What purpose could that serve?” He’d understand if one dialect was, say, a chemists’ glyphset, and another a compilation of action verbs, and another a pidgin meant for daily use. But both these languages had a glyph, often even multiple glyphs, for the same concepts.

"Who cares, we can talk to it," Rewind crowed gleefully, giving a happy shiver as Blaster's cilia slithered out and his primary withdrew. He clambered down Blaster’s arm and bounded back over to the table where the human was now huddled up behind the water cube, wrapped in the polishing cloth it had used to dry off and watching Blaster with wide optics. "Hola, humano. ¿Qué pasa?"

"Holy fuck!" the human exclaimed, scrambling backward, clutching the cloth to itself.

Rewind cocked his helm to the side, shifting to the second language. "Is that your function, designation, or both? Are you some sort of sacred prostitute?" Maybe there were obligatory rituals Tracks had been overlooking.

"Metete un palo por tu culo, dickhead! I'm not some fucking chapero!"

"Woah, woah, take it easy," Eject stepped in, holding out his hands to show that he’d cycled up none of his weaponry. He liked the subset of slang glyphs in these languages.

"Take it easy? Take it easy?” The human gesticulated vigorously with one arm, clutching the organic mesh with the other hand. “You try taking it easy, cabrón. I sign up to detail you motherfuckers. Detail you! Yeah, maybe a little oral on the side and a hand job or two. I'm a flexible guy. Then next thing I know you mierdas are fucking electrocuting me or something, and then I've got a fucking chemical burn on my leg and some fucking plug-thing shoved up my ass! And that was nothing compared to when you fuckers started putting your things in there, and not giving me a bite of food or a drink unless I just bend over and fucking take it. Then they put me in a cage in fucking Jabba the RoboHutt's room, and then the fucker almost turns Mason inside out with its biggest fucking thing, and then electrocutes the poor fucker on top of it. And now I’m stuck here with that insane guy and Aslan-the-fucking LION and a giant tentacle monster, and you tell me to take it easy!?" The human turned its back with a dramatic whirl, but not before quickly glancing over to make sure that Steeljaw was still safely on the other side of the table.

"It talks almost as much as you do," Eject commented to Rewind, completely ignoring Ramhorn's acerbic glyph related to the irony of that statement. "Did you even get all of that? With all the things in the fucking things? I think my language file must be a little glitched."

"It's obviously really upset," Rewind said, concerned. “I... think it wants a small, covered habitation unit. A hut.” Often made of mud and thatched with organic straw, and where were they to locate any of those supplies?

“That must be why it is so concerned about that stonelayer, this ‘mason’ thing,” said Eject, bouncing up on his toes. He started to cross the table, but a quick glyph from Blaster on the cohort band stopped him. The creature probably did need some space. He switched carefully back to the organic’s languages. "Hey, humano-- “

"--My name's not fucking ‘human.’ It's Raoul. Raoul Jesus Candelario Rivera."

“Ooh,” Rewind breathed.

“Raoul-raouljesuscaldelariorivera!” repeated Eject, delighted. “Such a long designation in such a slow language -- how do you ever get anything done?”

The human jerked back around. “Wha-- no, look, it’s just Raoul. How the fuck are you talking all the sudden, anyway?”

“Our carrier just disseminated your language file, Raoul,” said Steeljaw, lifting his heavy-maned head, only to be taken aback by the human’s strong response. Its alarm pheromones were particularly distinctive and interesting.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Raoul yelped, nearly tumbling over the edge and into the water. Definitely aquatic.

“Actually, his designation is, uhm...” Rewind scratched his helm. The Raoul had shortened his name to just the first, simpler glyph, so perhaps they could do the same. It would only be courteous -- even if it did kinda feel like he was calling everyone their sparkling designations. “...Steeljaw. I’m Rewind, he’s Eject, and our carrier is Blaster. He’s pretty handy at programming replicators, maybe he can help make this hut thing you want.”

“Huh?”

Rewind babbled on, “and then there’s Tracks, over there, with the dark blue plating. He’s your new owner!”

_“What?!”_

\---

It took Blaster several breem to get everyone calmed down and seated at or on the human’s table. Tracks was nearly as incensed as Raoul. “Look,” the mech said, fingers tense on the edge. “I get that you didn’t ask for all this, but you’ve been properly indentured, and if I can’t get a high-quality human to service my clients, I’ll have to downsize this place, or even close shop.”

“Ain’t my problem, cabrón. Service ‘em yourself, or make that bloated Jabba-idol do it for you. I’m through with this shi--”

“Scrap and sparks --!” Tracks started to move, and Blaster clamped his hand down around the detailer’s wrist. “I’ve been building this place since before your species learned to walk upright; if you think I’m going to let one little carbon primate...”

“Ahem,” Blaster deliberately cleared and reset his vocalizer, fixing Tracks with a steady gaze.

Steeljaw had been tracking the human’s scents quite closely -- as the creature had no field and few fins or spurs with which to physically signal emotion, scent seemed the surest means of monitoring. “Perhaps we can reach an equitable solution,” he proposed. “Raoul, I believe, is more willing to bargain than his words suggest.”

The two mechkin had grown bored and wandered off sometime into the discussion, and now were kicking the capped canister of detergent between them, dodging around one another, falling off the table with a clatter only to climb back up again. Steeljaw sighed and reached out with one massive paw, capturing the canister the next time it went bouncing by. “Awww!” protested Eject, collapsing dejectedly. Rewind slumped atop his class-brother, the two small mecha forming the very picture of a pile of misery.

Steeljaw made a huffing sound and batted the canister off the side of the table, sitting up lest he be trampled when both the mechkin dived after it. He shook himself, the long thin blades of his mane rattling. “Raoul may be willing to trade his services.”

The human brightened visibly. Tracks, however, glowered. “Trade? The humans are *indentured.* That’s why they’re so fragging expensive, because their *planet* is already receiving Primus-knows-what in aid. Raoul volunteered for this. He gets food, water, his own cage; why should I --”

"Look, hombre, the way I see it, you need me. I don't need you. Sure, you got the food and shit, but I'd rather starve than be some performing monkey who takes it in the ass for food. You say you gonna have to shut down if I don't help you? Then what the hell is in it for me, besides fucking Spongebob Squarepants for breakfast? 'Cause I'll fucking off myself before I perform tricks for treats. Got it?"

"You're completely glitched," Tracks exploded. "You'd rather deactivate, even with fuel available, than perform your designated function?"

Raoul crossed his arms, looking almost smug. "Detail a bunch of fucking robots and take it up the ass after for nothing but food and a cage? Hombre, that ain't what I fucking signed up for. That's slavery, and like one of my ancestors said, 'give me fucking liberty, or chupe mantequilla de mi culo'."

"You're bluffing," Tracks said, waving his hand in dismissal even as his optics cycled at the insult. He wasn't certain what butter even was, or why the human would have a dairy product in his posterior port in the first place. Did humans commonly apply suction to one another's ports? "All organic beings are motivated primarily by surviving long enough to pass on their genetic material. I'll just stop feeding you again and we'll see how--" Track's declaration cut off abruptly at the sudden surge of fury in Blaster's normally easy-going field, a wave powerful enough to crackle where it met the buzz of Track's own still-discordant field. Rewind and Eject stopped their antics and stared at him, aghast. Steeljaw stood, shaking his mane, optics whirring and bright as he reacted to his Master’s distress.

Raoul looked around and arched the fur-lined ridge above his moist optics. "Try it," he countered, speaking in a deliberate purr, "and next time one of your customers pulls out his plug thing, how 'bout I show you just how much the fucker appreciates when I drop it, oh, off the edge of the table. Or when your pet monkey takes a piss in an open seam."

Blaster's hand shot out to clamp on Track's arm before he could rise in rage.

"Maybe we all need to take a break," Steeljaw suggested amicably, though his sensor spines were flared in response to his carrier's agitation.

Steeljaw watched intently as Raoul narrowed his optical shutters, optics darting back and forth between Tracks and Blaster. Then the human shrugged, suddenly appearing completely relaxed, though Steeljaw could smell his excitement and tension. "Fine with me." He leaned over the edge of the table to look down at Rewind and Eject, who were staring up at the scene with uncertain expressions. "Hey, muchachos, you ever hear about soccer? Tentacles, give me a lift down to the floor, will ya?"

"What in Primus’ name was that about?" Tracks demanded softly, shifting back to Cybertronian dialects even as Blaster picked up the human, who visibly shivered in fear at the contact despite the bravado, and placed him on the ground next to Rewind and Eject. Raoul began enthusiastically explaining a game of some sort. A quick comm from Blaster reminded the mechkin not to exceed human tolerances.

"My friend," Blaster began carefully, the anger in his field still flaring with a near-audible buzz, "what's the harm in treating this more as a business negotiation with a valuable future employee?"

"But it's an organic--"

"And how easy's it gonna be to get another one, or fix your shop's reputation if the little critter really follows through on any of those threats?"

Track's shifted uncomfortably, secondary optics panning his precious shop. "You still haven't explained your odd behavior," he archly deflected.

Blaster glanced aside. "Reminds me too much of a mechkin," he admitted. "Can't abide the idea of it going without basic needs, being forced to perform a function it’s learned to hate. Tracks, you've been my friend for close to a megavorn, and I've told you what things were like for Chroniclers and our cohorts before reconciliation. If you go that route, you won't be seeing me or mine in this shop again."

He paused to let that sink in. He and his cohort had risen to prominence in Kalis’ media distribution network. If the city’s goldenboy newscaster openly shunned a bodyshop, the result would not be favorable for Tracks’ publicity, human or no. Of course, if Tracks did choose to resume his previous technique, Blaster’s own coding might very well drive him to steal the creature. And wouldn't that be a messy canister of paste wax to open.

Tracks gritted his dentae, but said nothing, regarding the human and the two mechkin with frustration. The organic was surprisingly athletic when it had room to run, racing alongside Rewind, kicking an empty, lighter-weight canister they'd found across to the mechkin as they both tried to dodge around Eject. After several attempts, they succeeded and Raoul bounced the canister between two scrubbing cleaning drones. “Yeah!” Raoul shouted, presenting both hands to his teammate in an incomprehensible gesture.

The organic then spent a full breem instructing the two mechkin in how to slap palms. By the end of it, the three of them were bumping knuckles and tapping fists in a complex physical ritual. Both mechkin practically glowed, delighted with this new game. Eventually, Steeljaw stretched himself, jumped languidly down, and prowled over to lay down nearby. The human gave him a wide berth, but seemed less and less fearful as time went on. Eventually, the human tired, unused to so much running. Rewind and Eject flopped down beside him, engaged in quiet conversation.

Tracks sighed, pinched the bridge of his olfactory unit between two fingers. “Hu -- Raoul. If I decide to bargain with you -- IF -- then what exactly would I need to provide for you to--" Tracks almost had to choke out the next words, "compensate you for your function?"

Raoul looked up, lips a tight line. Eject leaned over and whispered something. Tracks stiffened, and Blaster patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Mason and Ben. I want them out of that thing’s clutches, if they’re still alive. And passage back to earth for all of us -- with enough tech and stuff to set us up for life, fix the places we came from.”

Blaster clamped down on Tracks’ arm, hard enough to crimp the plating under his hand. “Those are all long term goals,” he noted neutrally. “I think Raoul realizes that you don’t have the resources to do any of those things right now. But you can help him work towards his goals.”

"Right. If I work here, I'm your partner, not your goddamn slave," Raoul began. "I want seventy-five percent of whatever fees you charge for my services. And I want Tentacles here to be my agent, and invest the money for me."

"Seventy-five? Seventy-five!? That's beyond outrageous!" Track's erupted. "By the time I pay for the supplies, publicity, taxes, fees, not to mention the cost of your upkeep -- do you even know how much that organic wax costs?! I wouldn't even pay another master level detailing mech that much!"

"Hombre, how many other shops have a fucking tower-quality human?" Raoul countered, pointing his thumbs toward his chest, glancing at Rewind who gave him an encouraging nod, already picking up up on the uniquely human nonverbals. "You can get away with charging more for me than the other shops do."

“I don’t even know if you work," Tracks countered belligerently, settling in for a long business negotiation, something he'd been doing since before the human's species had come down from the trees. "For all I know, Kalis wasn’t even planning on using you.”

“WHAT?!”

“Tracks...” Blaster in-vented harshly. “This was one of Kalis’s -- how did you....”  Humans such as this were never sold, could not be bought at any price, let alone one a small detailing shop could afford.

“Qué chingados! Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Fucking mechs always pick me first, that’s how good I--”

“Tracks, *please* tell me you didn’t steal....”

"If Raoul belonged to Kalis, that makes his services worth even more," Steeljaw pointed out, his bladed sensory spines rustling a bit as he settled his helm a bit more comfortably on his paws.

"Prove it," Tracks countered, his voice hard as tungsten carbide. "Kalis discarded you easily enough. Prove it and I might, *might* consider," he glanced over at Blaster, cursing inwardly as he upped his initial offer, "five percent."

"Chinga tu hermana, pendejo. Sixty, or you don't see nothin', " Raoul spat back.

"Ten."

"Fifty."

"Twenty and not a credit more," Tracks said. "And if you ever, *ever* harm one of my clients, every credit gets returned to me."

"Forty, but I want some clothes. And something other than a fucking cage to live in."

"Thirty, and I’ll do whatever I can to bargain for Kalis’ other two humans, try to figure out a way to get them as cheaply as possible. But their cost, and the cost of your extra amenities, comes out of your cut."

"Deal," Raoul said, smiling widely, clearly pleased with where the number had settled. And Steeljaw thought he should be. If Tracks could charge as much as Steeljaw estimated he could, and with Blaster doing the investing of those credits? And the publicity their cohort could provide? Raoul was going to be an one wealthy primate.

"If you are indeed a tower-quality human," Tracks added.

"You better fucking believe I am, cabrón," said the human.

“So you’ve claimed,” snorted Tracks.

“Besa mi culo, puto,” growled the human and grabbed at Rewind’s arm where the mechkin was sprawled beside him. And closed his mouth over the underside of the symbiont’s wrist.

“Wha-- oh Primus!”

Raoul lifted his head, organic optics suddenly wide, "wait a second, you're not a kid or something like that, are you?"

"N-no, oh slag, Primus no, just do that again."

Raoul shot a glare at Tracks, his nimble organic glossa flicking his across his dentae, and then bent his head and went back to work.

 

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Lots and lots of thanks to readers. Extra super thanks to those who leave comments or kudos -- we appreciate your ideas and encouragement a thousand times over!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey partner, don't just sit there on your fucking ass. Get me the lube already," he called over to Tracks, grinning as the full-size mech spluttered and scowled at his tone. His grin widened when the big mech stood up and and stalked over to the shelf to pull off a canister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much an entire chapter of xeno porn, with some mech porn mixed in. Oral, anal, tactile, fieldplay, pnp. Potential bestiality squick due to technimal frametype. Cussing
> 
> [Suggested listening](http://youtu.be/JX7GT0LcJl4) for this chapter.

Raoul pulled his mouth off the little mech's plug, a thin line of saliva stretching from his lips, the moisture breaking as he swiped the tip with his tongue, encouraging the device to slip from its well-hidden slot between two thicker wrist struts. Rewind's entire body twitched with each flick. The mechs liked it wet and sloppy -- probably seemed perverted and kinky to them or something. Or maybe it had something to do with the moisture -- electricity fizzed along the roof of Raoul's mouth like the carbonated drinks he'd once had as a kid, making his lips tingle.

“Oh, wow....” whispered Rewind in awe, his mechanical eyes unfocused, the callipers and tiny devices around them clicking in a constant quiet whirr. “Wow, I...” 

Raoul had meant to leave it at that, but that expression of stunned amazement looked damn good on the little mech. Well, relatively little. Rewind was still taller than Raoul, and a whole lot heavier, just to judge by the heft of his arm. The mech’s plug, though -- that was definitely small, compared with all the things Raoul had been forced to take. 

The silvery length was a little shorter and thicker than a finger, and it fit nice and snug in his mouth when he drew it out on its cable and slipped it between his lips, to explore all the subtle bumps and divots on the surface. It was strange, handling such a small device. Easy to roll it in his mouth, to flick his tongue on both the top and underside. When he sucked hard, the mech’s whole frame seized, jerking, like Rewind couldn’t even sit up. 

Already, Raoul could feel a strong dose of those tingles that he'd once looked forward to back home. His whole body felt hot, and his cock ached, already so hard. With every hard suck or nibble of teeth, he could feel those tingling waves intensify, almost like he could taste the arousal coming off the small mech. It was addicting, to make a creature this strong just writhe with abandon beside him.

With a crooked little smile, Raoul swung a leg over to straddle the mech, trusting from experience that it'd clamp down its armor tight in the right places so nothing delicate got snagged. Rewind was warm and solid between his knees, bucking up hard, the metal of him deliciously hot. Making a show of it, Raoul drew the plug from between his lips with a wet smack. He traced his fingertips through the saliva, squeezed the little plug tight with both hands, massaging it harder than any cock could take, feeling the slight give to its softer, more flexible pearlescent metal under his fingertips. The little mech fucking *keened* when he carefully bit down or dug his nails in. And the way Rewind's outer petals of neck and shoulder armor flared and trembled, the electronic whines and buzzes the little mech made -- it was so fucking good, made him feel in control for the first time in far too long. 

And, with him straddling the mech like this, those sensitizing waves of arousal sent a shiver up his spine in a really, really good way. He was hard enough to leak, now. It wasn’t just the steel gray mech, either -- the blue one was just as excited, crouched close to watch, eyes spiraled wide. The waves coming off the both of them, whatever the energy was, were potent as a dusting of cocaine, making him feel just impossibly aware of his body, like his skin had become a living thing all its own. It’d been... weeks since he’d had this. Ah mierda, he wanted it.

"Hey partner, don't just sit there on your fucking ass. Get me the lube already," he called over to Tracks, grinning as the full-size mech spluttered and scowled at his tone. His grin widened when the big mech stood up and and stalked over to the shelf to pull off a canister.

He squeezed and stroked Rewind some more, bringing the tip back to his mouth to kiss and suckle with obscenely loud, smacking noises that always got the mechs' circuits buzzing. There was a reason he was always the favorite back on Earth.

Fuck, he was actually looking forward to it -- those pulses that made every inch of his body, inside and out, feel like one big fucking cock being stroked. If the fucking aliens had just *asked* him if he'd wanted to take it up the ass, and had smoothed out their plugs a bit, or used smaller ones like this? Never let it be said Raoul was afraid to try something new. 

He sorta liked the little mechs, too, which made it better. They weren't giants, didn't have that freakish insect look that so many of them had. They almost looked human. Plus, they really did seem to want to help him. So did Tentacles and Aslan, if the little guys were being honest when they said they were passing on advice. 

"Gracias, compañero," he said slyly when Tracks delivered and opened a canister of wax, immediately filling his rebreather with a honey-like scent. Raoul scooped out a liberal two fingers full, the semi-liquid already warm and soft from the heated canister, and began massaging it into the rippled surface of the plug, drawing an electronic squeal of pleasure from the little gray and white mech. 

Mierda, it wasn't even gonna hurt when he put the plug inside. Might even feel a little too small, come to think of it, considering how stretched out he was. 

He looked over at the blue one, Eject, who was staring with hungry, glowing eyes, fingering the plating of his wrist where Raoul assumed he stored his own plug. Raoul was used to having so much more inside. He could easily fit both of these guys’ plugs without a sweat. Oh yeah, that was gonna be good.

"Give me your plug," Raoul demanded. Chingados, it felt good to be the one giving the orders for a change. 

"Boss?" Eject said, his voice full of static like one of those solar-powered radio receivers a few people still had back home. 

"Go ahead if ya want to, 'slong as Raoul's chill with it," the big one, Blaster said, his caramel-smooth baritone also tinged with static. 

"Fuck yeah, I can take you both," Raoul said. "Give it here, hermano." 

\----

A shiver ran through Blaster’s armor as Raoul took Eject's module, along with Rewind's, into his hands, working them both with soft, limber digits, making both mechkin keen as their feedback crossed in unexpected patterns of interference. 

The human was almost unimaginably dextrous, flexible, even graceful, with joints as limber as those of the finest Tower courtesan. Raoul was remarkable. Sure, Blaster had known something other than specialized detailing had to be involved in the humans' expense and the speed with which the fad had caught on, but, oh my, he'd never seen Rewind quite so undone outside of cohort sharing. Tracks and Blaster both watched with wide optics as the human licked and stroked both plugs, smoothing wax into them until both mechkin were keening, Eject stroking Rewind’s plating with frantic fingers, Rewind shuddering underneath Raoul’s slight weight as the human touched, caressed, bringing both mechkin to the brink by touch alone, without even a hint of electromagnetic play. 

Blaster couldn't keep the sensory data spilling in across the cohort linkage all to himself. Tracks needed to know what a good choice he'd made, even if under duress. Blaster stepped closer, winding a secondary datacable around Tracks’ thorax, the tips reconfiguring to tease at the protective covering of his main dorsal port. “Tracks … let me in, my mech, ya gotta feel this. He’s so sweet and soft ... I dunno how ya managed to convince the Towers to let him go, but your human is *amazing*, you’re goin’ to have mecha lined down the street for a taste of this …” A little flattery never hurt, especially when dealing with a mech like Tracks, and besides, it wasn’t as if Blaster was lying. His mechkin were on the verge of overload already, and the human had barely touched them! 

Tracks gave a half-hearted growl, even as his frame shuddered at that touch. “If you think you can sweet-talk your way out of this, after you sided against me with *my* fragging organic …” But he didn’t, Blaster noted, pull away.

“Mmmm--you know talkin’s what I do best,” Blaster purred, loading the words with the resonances and overlays that made him the Voice of Kalis, one of Cybertron’s premier databrokers, his channels viewed across the empire. Any mech could relay information, could dig up facts and wave ‘em around--but only Blaster could take those databits and make them *sizzle*. “But that’s not really what I had in mind ….” Another stroke of that cable, sensory cilia extended just enough to send a tantalizing charge over the surface of Tracks’ plating. A second cable coiled upwards, stroking along transformation seams as the other mech arched backwards, engine stuttering. “C’mon, Tracks. Why should the bitlets have all the fun? Let us in, and we’ll take ya on a ride you’ll never forget …”

He half expected Tracks to slap his secondary away as it slid across the mechanic's plating. Tracks was still irate with him, and with good cause, though Blaster didn’t regret his actions. Tracks shot him a glare... that became a shiver as several brilliant blue cilia snaked between two plates, twining into deep sensory beds. 

“I.... oh, Primus,” Tracks breathed, and the cover of his thoracic port slid open. 

Blaster wasted no time, clever multitools finding the subtle markings around the port and reconfiguring to lock into place. The sheaf of his fiberoptic cilia pressed inside, flooding the small socket entirely, forging contacts with every hidden pin and sensory node. 

And then the datalink spiraled open between them, and Tracks choked. 

*Primus.* He could feel every wonderful stroke of alien skin over the two symbionts’ hardware, could feel the racing fire as both symbionts cranked their haptics to maximum. The organic was so soft, more giving than protometal, struts and tensors a delicate firmness underneath. Raoul’s teeth and nails were sweet counterpoint to that yielding touch, scraping, dipping in between sheets of plating, so agile. 

And then the human did something Tracks could never have anticipated, never even heard of -- he leaned down, the length of his body a hot weight against Rewind’s chest, and pressed his lip components to the symbiont’s. 

Rewind stilled in confusion at the touch of moisture on his mouth, the flicker of a glossa not wiry and tough, but rather as flexible and giving as the rest of the little human. So trusting, to press it between the mech’s dentae, and the sensations.... The moisture linked and tripped sensors in the cavity of Rewind’s buccal unit, just like when the symbiont took a mouthful of energon. But the water conducted differently, channeled electricity differently, filling his mouth with crawling foxfire, with flavors he’d never tasted before. It was so novel, so delightfully alien --

Rewind responded. Hesitantly at first, afraid of hurting the human, then more eagerly, moving his lip plates under Raoul’s mouth, trying to emulate the organic’s sheer dexterity. Every touch and sweep of soft-skinned glossa raised new shivers of delight. 

Raoul reached back, and set the closely held pair of plugs at the rim of his port. And then, slowly, began to press. 

Already impossibly intense, the sensations became a firestorm, doubled through the pair of symbionts. The sensations of heat and slick tightness, together, were so strange they shouldn’t have been enjoyable, and yet Tracks could not, in that moment, even recall any other act this enthralling, this rapturous. Devoid of the usual data transfers, there was nothing but sheerest tactile sensation, pressure and clasping warmth as the human’s body engulfed the two plugs, the unique ebb and flow of the organic’s strange field-modulating properties surrounding them. Raoul shuddered as both plugs finally slipped inside, and wrapped in Blaster’s cables, Tracks shuddered with him, venting hard. 

“P-Primus … how can such a tiny creature feel so good?” he managed, the words staticky with excess charge. Blaster chuckled, even as he twined tendrils deeper, stroking against the soft threaded bands of the other mech’s protoform. Rewind and Eject were keening their pleasure, stroking blunt digits over each other, and over Raoul’s soft hide. Above them, the human had thrown his head back, his dentae bared in a feral kind of delight.

“Oh yeah … just like that … so fuckin’ deep, so fuckin’ right ….” Raoul tilted his head, looking at Eject’s faceplates, and the small mechkin shuddered as he squeezed down, letting them feel every pulsation, every soft fold. “You liking that, mi amigo? You and your brother, together inside me?” 

A staticky whine escaped Rewind, and he bucked up underneath the human’s slight weight, his hands spasming. “Oh wow, B-boss … no wonder the Towers like humans so much. This is--this is--it’s like being dipped in high grade! So good ...” 

Eject grinned, just delighting in everything -- the heat, the softness, the human’s fierce pleasure. “Yeah,” he breathed, vocalizer breaking into a groan as Raoul clenched down again, rubbing his interface cable against his brother’s. Rewind writhed harder still, all but undone. So amazing to see his more reserved brother like this, just lost in the sensations crossing his neural net. “I wonder -- oh! Wonder if....” the human was so strange, didn’t really have a field, but there was something oddly electromagnetic about the organic all the same, like some resident potential, some latent charge.

Experimentally, playfully, Eject pushed a datapacket over his interface hardware, just as he might if interfacing with another mech. Eject grinned as his brother cried out -- and then he had just a single nanoklick to gape as a true field, crackling with chaotic heat, flared into dazzling life around the human... and a tidal wave of sensation came crashing down.

The human stiffened, vocalizing a breathless cry, its soft internals clamping tightly against the mechkins’ plugs, and the larger mecha stiffened as well under the sudden electric cascade, a riot of uncontrolled, incoherent pleasure reverberating along the cohort bond, amplified and alien and so, so good … A warbling, keening sound escaped Blaster’s vocalizer, his cables tightening enough to make Tracks’ armor creak as the two larger mecha swayed under the onslaught. Eject and Rewind were even further gone, he noted distantly, carrier protocols registering overcharged systems, higher processes dropping offline in favor of devoting more resources towards sensory input. Nothing dangerous yet, just two mechkin having a Pit of a good time--and who could blame them? Who would have ever thought such an unassuming little organic species could modulate and express their fields like *that*? 

In his embrace, Tracks was shuddering, obviously having to lock in temporary blocks on his major support structures just to stay upright. “Wh--what the frag …?” he said dazedly, his vocalizer so fritzed with static it was almost unintelligible. “Was that--?”

“Your human? Oh yeah,” Blaster purred, noting the strange frequency effects the little organic employed so effortlessly, storing them into memory for future consideration. Even the Voice of Kalis could stand to pick up a few new tricks now and then … He sent a few echoes of that sensory-spike tripping over Tracks’ systems, teasing the mechanic even higher as he modulated the data, layering it, echoes it back to both Tracks and his cohort to enjoy. Tracks’ servos whined, his plating shifting, vents blown wide, and Blaster nuzzled against that helm, shifting his own frame to intertwine and rub luxuriously against the other mech, foxfire charge sparking over their plating. 

“Tracks, my mech, that deal of yours is looking better all the time …” Blaster managed to say, through the tiny portion of his cortex still capable of coherent speech. Eject and Rewind had shifted into a tight, writhing tangle around the human, all of them still shuddering under the resonances of that charge, the careful echoes that bounced between them, and Blaster could feel the alien slick static-snap as the human--as *Raoul* licked and nipped and writhed between the two mechkin, his soft-hided body gleaming with moisture, sharp alien pheromones perfuming the air.

Raoul’s field faded quickly, returning to its resting state -- but flared again in a dazzling crackle as Rewind tried sending a pulse across his hardline. Raoul jerked and groaned, shoving himself back into Eject’s solid weight, grinding his hips down against Rewind’s as if to push the cable tips even deeper. 

“You’re so soft,” Eject gasped, when he could vocalize again. It felt impossibly strange to handle a creature actually smaller than himself, at best a third of his weight. Was this how big mecha felt around mechkin? So careful, so conscious of size and fragility? His fingers felt too big and too blunt as he stroked over Raoul’s tremoring flanks, feeling the salt that gathered there, marveling over the silkiness of the organic’s hide. He could feel the pulse of fuel beneath, driven by a single pump with an alien two-beat rhythm. 

Reaching around the slight form, Eject's fingers traced through the slippery, translucent fluid that had splashed on Raoul's abdomen and chest and all over his cohort brother. He brought his finger to his mouth for a more detailed analysis, and found that the fluid was swarming with organic nanites, chemically imprinted with a partial version of Raoul's biogenetic code. 

Fascinating! Raoul was somehow involving the two of them, a completely unrelated form of life, in a type of mating behavior! Eject would have to pass the data on to someone in xenobiology to find out it had any precedent, or was unique to humans. Was the incredible electromagnetic feedback a means of attracting unrelated species? If so, what was the purpose? Some sort of harvest of data to incorporate into their own code? 

Eject passed the data on to his brother who catalogued it as eagerly as he was cataloguing every nanobyte of sensation, and in turn, Rewind sent a suggestion via an image file. Maybe Raoul'd appreciate some similar treatment in return. After all, humans probably hadn’t learned to do... that wonderful thing Raoul had done, with his mouth and hands on the mechkins’ data plugs, from any kind of training. What mech would even imagine such a thing, let alone think to teach it to an organic? It was simply too novel, too different from even the kinkiest forms of tactile play that preceded interfacing, and Eject had the pornographic data to prove it. The act had to be based on Raoul's own preferences and experiences.

Grinning wide, Eject dragged his fingertips across Raoul’s smooth hide... and oh-so-carefully wrapped his hand around the Raoul's slippery little data-fluid nozzle, just above where the organic’s port clenched around the two data cables. The device felt so delicate, erect not from any tensors moving into place, but simply for being engorged with fluid. Experimentally, he gave an extremely gentle squeeze, and moved his hand in imitation of some of the movements Raoul had made on their tips, careful to keep the pressure well beneath the human's tolerances.

Raoul froze at the initial touch, looking over his shoulder, optics wide. The he grinned and adjusted his position to give Eject better access. 

“Yeah, I like that, just --” Raoul wrapped his slick fingers around Eject’s, squeezing a little, firming the mech’s grip. He pushed the whole of his back against Eject’s frontal plating, twisting in a slow loose-hipped writhe, impossibly limber. “A little... harder, like this,” he gasped, showing the symbiont how to stroke. Eject wished Raoul could share the exact preferences via datacable, but did his best to imitate the strength of Raoul's grip and the pace of movements. It seemed to do the trick, because soon the creature was writhing between them, and his field again began to flare and transmit along their datalines in its strange and evocative way.

Those alien flares and ripples were an addictive torment. So strange, so unexpectedly different, just wildly shifting ghosts of utterly novel sensations -- even the most subtle echo of data bounced oddly from that fluctuating field, was returned in wonderfully altered wavelengths, scrambled and enhanced. And oh, Raoul liked it when Eject reached between his thighs to finger the pair of twined cables there. The human’s body clenched at the plugs when Eject made as if to draw them out, like it wanted them inside, wanted them deeper. Like Raoul had been made for this. 

A little more, and Eject couldn’t withstand those alien charms any longer. Vents flared wide and systems running hot, he pushed a full datapacket over his line -- and cried out, his vocalizer breaking on a high squeal as Rewind did the same, both packets rippling with interference patterns, intensified a thousand times and mirrored back at them. Electricity sparked and crackled between the two little mecha, grounding so hard that Blaster was going to have to do *repairs.*

Jerking between them, Raoul overloaded once and then again, his nanites spilling over Eject’s hand, howling out his own pleasure. 

 

\--

 

Within a joor or so, Raoul finally went limp between the two symbionts, venting harshly. The mechkin were in no better shape. “You-- you’re amazing, Raoul,” Eject murmured, levering himself with trembling limbs to lay on his side, next to Rewind and Raoul. Tracks and Blaster had retired to the mechanic’s berthspace, and the echoes of that ongoing bliss encompassed all Blaster’s symbionts.

The human’s mouthparts curled up. “Yeah. Told ya’all I’m a high-performance model.” 

Rewind reached up with sensitive finger tips -- hesitantly, with care -- to stroke along the human’s helm fur. It was as soft as it looked. “Can you... do the thing again with your mouth? And mine?”

“A kiss?” Raoul grinned, scooted up a little to nuzzle at Rewind’s jawline. “No problemo.” Those delicate, soft-hided lips touched Rewind’s jaw, traced up to settle over his mouthparts, tongue flickering lightly over the smooth surfaces. Rewind shivered at the muted sizzle of sensation, drinking it in, focusing on every bit of the alien pleasure of it, the strange, incredible sensation of the little organic’s soft glossa against his steely, wiry one. The moisture and salts made his mouthparts crackle with charge.

“‘Kiss’,” he echoed, feeling out the human word for himself, liking it. He didn’t bother to suppress the happiness in his field as Raoul stretched languorously, settling himself more comfortably on top of Rewind’s frame, soft digits idly tracing along the edges of his plating. The human’s weight, Rewind discovered, was just perfect -- warm, pleasantly heavy, light enough to move easily -- and he thought he could lay here covered by the organic forever.

“Kisses. Kissing, kissed,” Rewind murmured, experimenting with the alien modifiers. “Mm … I like ‘kissing’ a lot,” he told Raoul. “I wonder why we never tried that with each other?“ Interfacing could involve contact far more intimate than that, of course. But he’d never tried touching his mouthparts to those of another mecha before. 

“Probably ‘cause it’s not nearly as much fun without a human,” Eject suggested blearily, his vocalizer still fuzzed with static. 

Raoul grinned, white dentae flashing, and patted Rewind’s chestplates. “Stick with me, hermano, and I’ll give you a ride you’ll never forget.”

“Mmn …” Rewind hummed in agreement, belatedly realizing that he was being selfish. It wasn’t fair to hog the human all to themselves--especially when Steeljaw had been waiting so patiently! “Ok if the others join us?” Rewind asked, as he tangled his interface cable between his fingers, and began to ease his and his class-brother’s plugs from the human’s clenching little port. Even that was almost too much, too sweet. The human’s body kept rippling, like it wanted to hold onto the two small devices. It was so slick, so tight and wonderful and strange....

“Huh? Yeah -- mmmph,” Raoul squirmed, so that Rewind had to run his hands down the human’s back, just to keep him still enough. 

\----

Others -- were there others? Raoul couldn’t remember. The big mechs probably, and before all this he’d never have had the stamina to do all this and then take more, but hey, practice made perfect, right? The two little human-like mechs had put him through his paces for sure, but at least he could still move. 

It didn’t seem, though, like either Tentacles or Tracks was planning on leaving the next room anytime soon, or the big bed-table thing there. Whatever they were doing sounded like a knifefight and, from the sideways glimpse he could manage, looked like a giant squid fighting a submarine in slow motion. It was hard even to tell where one mass of plating left off and the other began, both bodies folded together in ways that made his eyes cross. Weird-ass aliens. 

He groaned as the two plugs at last slid free of his body, making him feel suddenly hollow, empty. The other small mech, Eject, folded both little devices into a square of microfiber, cleaning the wax from the slick surfaces, so that Raoul didn’t need to. Thoughtful guy. Raoul liked them, he decided, eyes sliding shut, body sprawled limp under Rewind’s hands. His eyes drifted shut.

A warm draft of air flowed across his back, jerking Raoul from the edge of somnolence. One of the big mechs --? And then he caught sight of a golden foreleg, sculpted, thicker than his bicep. He gasped, tried to turn, and the small mech’s fingers tightened on his ass, subtly spreading his cheeks.

The lion’s warm, metal chest brushed his shoulders. A warm muzzle -- full of teeth the size of his hand -- touched his shoulder. Warm air, like a breath, flooded over his back. As if there was nothing wrong with any of this, Eject reached down and between them with fingers coated in wax, probably to prepare the lion.

Oh god.

Raoul's stomach did a violent roll.

"Wait," he managed to choke out, his throat closing tight in sudden panic. But the little mech had already stopped. Before he even realized what he was doing, Raoul scrambled from between the two mechs, ending up several feet away, looking around for a weapon, for something, anything to cover himself with.

"Why do I terrify you?" the lion-thing asked as it backed up a step, sounding honestly baffled and concerned. 

The knifefight noises had stopped in the other room. Shit. Raoul squared his shoulders and faced the lion... Steeljaw. Fuck if he was going to let that Tracks fucker have any reason to doubt him.

"Not scared," he said. Maybe... maybe if he stayed in control, he could muscle through whatever the fuck this reflex was. The lion was bigger than any he’d seen in vids or even books, was probably the mass of both of the human-sized mechs put together. As tall as a pony, and far longer, its joints and cables and gears that stood out like corded muscles. It was gorgeous, as golden as the sun -- and terrible, with claws like springblades. But a machine wasn’t an animal, even if it looked like one, right? So it wasn’t like he was going to fuck a horse or anything, right? Not even one that could bite him in half, or stab him to death with one twist. Shit. "Let’s just start slow,” he managed, holding out his hand for the lion's plug. “Give it here, Aslan," he crooned with what he hoped was a winning smile. 

"Raoul," Steeljaw's tone was deep and soft. Was the thing purring? "I'm covered in sensory spines," he explained, flaring all the thin blades of his mane. "At this distance, I can detect changes in your ecto and endo hormonal activity, your respiration, heart rate, and blood oxygen saturation the instant they take place. You are frightened." 

Raoul frowned. "First of all, you don't make an hombre admit he's fucking terrified. Second of all, what the fuck? Of course I am. I mean, just look at you."

Steeljaw tilted his head, his mane shifting and flaring again, and Raoul had the impression that he was, indeed, examining himself -- or trying to, from Raoul's point of view. Rewind sat up, and he and Eject both turned to study Steeljaw as well, optics cycling and focussing in on the deadly golden form. Eject scratched his head.

"I'm built for tracking, not combat," Steeljaw offered. "Rewind and Eject have more in-frame weaponry. But any of us could do you great damage."

"Trust me," Raoul said bitterly, "I know. That Jabba fucker probably killed my friend, and I don't think it was even trying to."

The purring noise became louder. How the hell did the machines even know that sound? "Yet in spite of that, you were quite enthusiastic with my cohort brethren," Steeljaw said, shifting his frame to lay down. He crossed his front paws, resting his head on top of them. 

Raoul squirmed, feeling distinctly like he was being read like a book, inside and out. Not judged -- but examined and thoroughly documented. Hijo de puta, he was not gonna admit to these chingados just how much he needed whatever the fuck it was they did to him. Here he was, not twenty minutes from being very thoroughly fucked, his own come still drying on him, and he still was ready for more. "Look, I want to save my friends. I want to get back home someday, help the poor fuckers back there if I can. If you think I'm gonna let a little instinct stop me from... besides, you cabrones actually seem like might want to help. I don't mind it with you, okay? Just don't... just quit asking me any more fucking questions and give me your goddamn plug."

// _Blaster?_ // Steeljaw asked, knowing just how closely the entire interaction was being monitored. The bladeframe's ethical subroutines were in an uproar over the entire situation.

// _He'll need to need to get past whatever's making him react differently to you if he’s working in this shop, as popular as this place is with Chronicler cohorts,_ // Blaster offered, his glyphs laced with the promise that they would take Raoul out of the situation at the first sign he was being mistreated or that the agreement was not being honored. // _It's up to you, Steeljaw. You know I trust your judgment._ //

// _Sometimes we wish you were a little more bossy, boss,_ // Eject interjected fondly. 

// _This little guy makes up for it, though,_ // teased Rewind. // _I wonder if all humans are this assertive?_ //

“Perhaps we should be more formally introduced, first,” Steeljaw offered, making no move to get up. He stretched out languidly, ignoring the traces of liquid wax that made his lower belly glisten like the plating there had been encrusted with jewels. Once he was fully detailed, he’d be shinier than even Jabba the Hutt, almost too bright to be real. Not that he was in bad shape now -- someone had obviously been taking care of all these little mini-mecha. But there was definitely room for improvement. “Tell me more about what you mean by this ‘instinct.’” 

“Instinct?” Raoul shrugged, irate. “Something you’re born with. Like knowing that it’s a bad idea to pick up snakes, or fall off of tall things. And a really bad idea to climb into a cage full of lions. Stuff like that.” 

Steeljaw arched an optical ridge. “I am neither a snake, a tall object, nor a lion, and I am not in a cage,” he said, running a comparison as best he could. The dictionary file contained no scans, so he had only descriptions to go by. A lion was apparently a large, tawny-colored cat, which itself was defined as a small domesticated carnivorous mammal. And a mammal was a warm-blooded vertebrate animal which secreted fuel. The bewildering image that came to mind was that of an oversized, leaky fuel pump, equipped with spinal struts and a ruff of fur. Aslan, the name Raoul kept using to refer to him, was apparently the Turkish word for lion, and also an extremely large version of that same species from a fictional allegory written for children. Perhaps the fictional Aslan-pump had gone on a leaky rampage and damaged a great many fictional people, thus engendering Raoul’s fears.

"Well, you look like the biggest, deadliest fucking lion I've ever seen, with knives for a mane. Your hermanos? They remind me of some of the hombres I used to fix shit up with -- they're just not as threatening, see? Tentacles in there--" Raoul gestured to where the knifefight and electronic whining and screeching had resumed, "--looks like a cross between my worst nightmare and fucking Cthulhu, so I'm trying not to even think about him yet."

"I wonder what you’ll think of Ramhorn!" Rewind exclaimed, thoroughly entertained. So many wonderful new words! It was all like a puzzle-toy. 

"I seriously doubt you could get him to undock right now," Eject said, making a motion to where Tracks and Tentacles were doing their slow motion origami-wrestling thing. 

"True, that," Rewind agreed, turning on his projector to show an image of the fourth symbiont in their cohort. 

"Oh, my fucking life, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Raoul said. 

Rewind tilted his helm. “Kidding?" He blinked at his soft-light image. Granted, it wasn’t a very good picture -- a little wavery, and the colors flickered a bit, but his projector really wasn’t a bad piece of hardware for a mechkin. He could run it for joors on just a tiny bit of fuel, which was more than Tracks could say for his fancy hardlight holographic generators. Perhaps the human had been struck dumb by fear -- Ramhorn’s color scheme, so reminiscent of spilled core energon, could be a little off-putting. Symbionts weren’t typically built for combat, but Ramhorn was a very definite exception to the rule.

"Yeah. How do you guys even come up with stuff? He looks like a fucking hot pink rhino... never mind. Just give me your cable, león de Oro. I promise you won't regret it." 

// _This creature is very confusing,_ // Ramhorn deigned to comment. 

// _Yeah, but wait till he gets those little fingers and his slick little glossa on your horn, Rammy--_ // Eject grinned as the channel abruptly closed before he could continue.

The tip of Steeljaw’s heavy, linked tail tapped the flooring, the cluster of sensors at the tip scraping lightly. “Perhaps later,” said the bladeframe. “Tell me, Raoul -- do you have other functions?”

“What?!” Raoul demanded, eyes narrow. What the hell was this? First he couldn’t get the chingados to stop fucking him, and then when he actually wanted to, he couldn’t get them to start! Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick. “You actually askin’ me if I can give a mech a polish? You’d better believe I can!” He stole a glance towards the other room. Doing a big mech alone wasn’t anything like fun, especially after the workout he’d had. A small one like Steeljaw wouldn’t be too bad.... 

But he’d still have to get close enough to touch. “You sure you don’t just want --” Raoul made a gesture that could either indicate that he needed a medic or that he wished to stroke something, depending on whether one went by cybertronian or human body language. 

Steeljaw flexed his paws in amusement. The human’s was an unwieldy language, to be sure; if he answered ‘yes,’ would it mean he wanted, or that he was sure? “I am certain,” he said. “My backplates, however, are in dire need of attention.” 

Raoul folded his arms and looked obstinate for several moments. Then he slumped. The lion didn’t seem like the kind of dude that would up and eat a guy. Probably. “Fine,” he said sullenly, and went to pick up a bathsheet-sized polishing cloth. “One of you guys, find me the paste wax? The kind with the squiggly exclamation mark on the side.”

“What about this?” said Eject, holding up the canister of liquid wax Raoul had used on himself and them. 

“You wanna put a coat on him that’ll wear off in a day, and looks like crap on his fine details, you go right ahead,” Raoul huffed, circling wide to approach the lion’s back, staying carefully clear of every one of those paws. Like a mech needed four-inch claws to fucking track shit! 

“Huh.” The two small humanoid mechs exchanged glances, babbled a string of electronic sounds, and then went to find the indicated type of wax. Raoul crouched down to get a better look at the curve of the lion’s back. Like he’d thought, the lion was in pretty good shape, without any nicks or scratches on the larger plates. Some of the smaller ones showed signs of scuffing, though, around joints and wherever one plate wore across another. 

Cautiously, Raoul scooted a little closer, and laid a palm on one of the big scapular plates. It was as golden warm as it looked, and Steeljaw didn’t move a muscle. Gear. Whatever. The purring, however, became louder. Raoul could feel the vibrations in his bones. He took a deep breath. 

"Kitty, when I'm done with you, you're gonna fucking gleam."

"Raoul, I am not a 'kitty'," Steeljaw said, his barbed tail flicking.

"Yeah, well you sure as hell purr like one... wait, I didn't tell you to stop. Kitty is a lot less terrifying than lion, right?"

Steeljaw huffed, but allowed his gear to slip again. The sound and vibrations did seem to have a calming effect on Raoul's fight or flight response. If only Steeljaw could delete the leaky fuel pump image from his data storage ... but as Raoul began carefully brushing away the particulates that always became caught between smaller plates, he decided he could bear it. Once the human began massaging in the paste wax, Steeljaw decided Raoul could call him whatever he wished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your encouragement and kudos! And thank you for being patient as writing played second fiddle to finals, work, holidays, broken laptops and illnesses. As always, we welcome your ideas for what is still to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul sighed and let himself relax against the heavy plating of Steeljaw’s side. Hard to imagine that just, what? Four days ago? He’d have been worried about these massive paws, or long teeth. He reached up to rub the bladeframe’s audials and scritch his cheek and throat, and grinned as the big cat started purring again. Slipping a gear, whatever. Sure as hell sounded like purring to him. He wriggled a little to settle his back more firmly against Steeljaw’s side. As always, his skin warmed, and then tingled, with more than just the heat of the plates there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains lots of explicit, fully consensual, fluffy-hot Raoul/Steeljaw smut. Anal, oral, electromagnetic play. Refs to Raoul/Blaster, Raoul/Tracks, Raoul/Ramhorn, Raoul/Eject, Raoul/Rewind. Minor refs. to suicide and threat of suicide.

First Aid transformed outside the small, yet elegantly modern detailing shop, folding himself neatly onto his pedes. The mecha around gave him plenty of room, as was customary given his alt -- a flatbed ambulance, capable of either towing or hauling the wounded -- and his medic coloration. 

This was a good area, if an expensive place for a detailer’s facility. But this particular shop was remarkably popular, First Aid knew, among the newly wealthy of Kalis. Which in turn had brought Tracks’ shop to the attention of the older, higher ranked mecha of Kalis, who enjoyed sampling the finest the masses had to offer, from time to time. Privately.

There was little jaded Towerlings loved more than new experiences, new sensations, after all. Creativity and novelty were rare things in the rigorous traditions of frameclass and function; traditions still preserved in Tower culture, even though they had been diminished in importance everywhere else, thanks to the Prime’s edict. In the Towers, mechanics were mechanics, and courtesans were courtesans, and never the twain would meet. A mech did not dare step outside of his properly coded function without consequences. And a Tower-contracted medic did not dare act as a xenoveterinarian, no matter how much he might wish to. 

At least, not in a manner that might get him caught. 

First Aid was stretching his function to the limit on this particular orn. Kalis, of course, had already had the offending memory deleted by a coding specialist. But the Tower Lord had kept enough factual files intact to know there was a reason to be concerned about the condition of the expensive organic imports, if only to have something to hold over Iacon at the next summit. First Aid could only hope that Kalis was far too distracted to notice a single medic who, on his own time, had decided to check on the condition of the organic who might have 'contaminated' the rest of the stock. 

Crossing the busy street, First Aid signaled the security system, comming his designation and credentials. He heard an entry bell chirp somewhere in the interior, even as the system politely informed him that no public bookings were being taken until three orn from now. He acknowledged the message, then discarded it, waiting for Tracks to grant him access. 

No one replied--and First Aid began to fear the worst. 

Primus. Had Tracks managed to kill the little human already? What if he’d taken it to be cropped, as Kalis had ordered? He could have fled the city, fearful of Kalis’ ire … might even have left the organic to a slow death, bereft of fuel and water. 

Mecha passing by slanted him strange looks, and First Aid fought to control the panic and dismay in his field. Think, think! He could mark Tracks down as badly glitched, to the point of needing immediate attention, and issue an alert -- all medical crews would keep an optic out for him, then, and as soon as the commissioners cleared the request, city surveillance drones and comm techs would start scanning for the mechanic. But that would attract a great deal of attention. More importantly, it wouldn’t help the human, if he was trapped inside the shop. Several kliks had now passed without any signs of life or movement. First Aid jittered nervously, acutely aware of time passing. Should he comm again? What he was doing was already a risk, but … he had to know if the human was still in there, if it was even still functioning.

Queuing up a medical override -- most public doorways would open for him in emergencies, though his use of the code would be reported -- First Aid pressed his helm to the hatch, increasing the gain on his audial sensors to maximum.

\--and picked up a piping, distinctly non-metallic voice. “Go get the door, hombre. ‘M busy.”

"Maybe we should wake up Tracks," a mech's voice responded. A mechkin, most likely, judging from the timbre and lack of larger resonances.

"Pfft, you think that prima donna wants to be seen answering the door? In his condition? Let ‘im have his beauty sleep. Just go see who it is and tell 'em that we ain't taking any appointments for another couple days or borns or whatever the hell you cabrones call 'em." 

First Aid cycled his optics. What the--? He automatically took a step back, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, even as the patter of small mechkin feet approached the portal.

The door whisked open. "May I help you?" a gray mechkin said, looking up at him with bright blue optics. First Aid could not help but note the sheer quantity of organic wax and other substances spread over the mechkin’s frame, along with a melange of distinctly sharp alien scents. It looked like the mechkin had enjoyed about a dozen coats of various waxes -- not all in the same areas -- and then been spattered with other, more unidentifiable substances. Several parts of the little mech’s chassis had also been expertly foil-chromed; Chronicler courtship nanites were daubed over his pauldrons and helm in a series of baffling spots. Under the bizarre decorations, however, the little mechkin gleamed like he was fresh off the assembly line.

"My designation is First Aid--I have an appointment to check on the human entrusted to Mechanic Tracks's care," First Aid said, restraining the urge to scan the interior of the shop. Even without conducting active sweeps, he could feel the buzz of comms suddenly light up the local bands, on private, tightly-encrypted channels.

"Oh, well, Raoul's fine. Totally normal. I mean, he's a bit occupied, but... er... I guess you can come in--"

"--what do you mean you're pulling out? I don't care if it's the Pope at the door. We just fucking got you in there, Aslan, and you ain't tiny like your hermanos!" 

First Aid initialized his scanners, worried. He followed the sound of the human’s irate voice, through the reception entrance and a luxurious room equipped with detailing tables, into the shop’s back areas. 

"At least I think this is pretty normal for him?" the mechkin amended, trotting along behind him. 

First Aid’s first impression was of a magnificent variety of clutter. Bodyshops certainly had more tools and devices than he’d ever realized … and it appeared that most of them were now spread out across every possible flat surface. Hammer-picks, washing units, chipping devices, nanite tattoo injectors, magnetic inlay applicators, bleaching light treatments, an incredible selection of tiny wire combs, scrubbers, mounted buffing rotors so large they were surely meant for use on cityformers, electroplaters, even the full array of flexible little cybertronium-plated prying brushes used to clean out the folds of a medic’s internal fabrication chambers -- just seeing them nearly made his knees go weak -- and a multitude of other devices that First Aid didn’t even have a name for. 

It looked like someone had wanted to examine absolutely everything the shop had to offer, and for every possible frametype. But why?

Finally, he spotted the human. It was running loose, but looked tolerably healthy. It was also shoving vigorously at the hindquarters of a rather large bladeframe.

“I told you, I’m too large to go in the rest of the way. And this is very ticklish. Ticklesome? What are you....”

“Just a little more -- ok, look, you gotta move your arm. Front leg, whatever. It keeps poking out all weird.”

"That is because I do not fit, Raoul."

"Oh, get some huevos, you big pussy cat. Anything can fit with some lube and a lot of relaxation. Trust me. I know." 

"First you think of me as a fur-covered leaking fuel dispenser, and now you want me to carry your embryo incubation vessels. And you think I'm the terrifying one." 

A bladeframe … who had been inserted bodily into a kind of roller buffing unit. The manicure device was intended to maintain and massage hand-components, from clawtip to elbow. The rollers whirred quietly, performing their function as best they could, but the whole frame of the device squeaked alarmingly as the bladeframe tried to extricate himself. The device could handle even quite large arm-assemblies. But it had not been designed to contain symbionts. 

That said, it apparently worked quite well when pressed to that purpose, to judge by the state of the two mechkins’ mirror-glossy plating. But then, mechkin were smaller than bladeframes.

A large, aggressively-colored hornframe lay sprawled nearby. First Aid generally didn’t have much time to watch news vids -- and running such entertainment on even a tertiary thread could be distraction if there happened to be an emergency -- but even so, he recognized the symbiont. Ramhorn? What was a famous--or infamous, depending on your point of view--war correspondent doing here? 

The big hornframe was just as polished and scrubbed as the rest of the symbionts in the shop, his armor gleaming. Someone had even delicately encrusted his horns and blunt bifurcated pedes with tiny gemstones -- an unusual, but oddly attractive decorative motif. Even more unusual was the fact that their carrier was nowhere to be seen. Now, why would....

“Oh, stop whining, you can stand it. Look, is this mark the lowest setting, or is it this other one?”

“Neither!” The golden bladeframe quit attempting to back out from between the rollers, and instead started trying to scramble out between the bars of the gear-grill in front. 

“ _What in the name of Primus below is going on in here??_ ”

“Great. So much for letting him sleep,” said the human, throwing up its arms in apparent irritation.

First Aid watched, bewildered, as the shop's owner came rushing out of his habitation suite. The mechanic was apparently so appalled at the disarray that he failed to even notice First Aid. He also couldn’t help but to note that Tracks was not nearly as detailed as the rest of them, and sported a significant amount of circuit scoring from what must have been one Pit of an overload. Not to mention the distinct evidence of human involvement in said overload, dried in streaks over the mechanic's chassis. 

"What... how... Primus! What have you done to my shop? Where’s Blaster? Is that the senatorial-grade foil chrome? That unit's not for symbionts! What the--do you have any idea how much... explain yourselves!"

"Easy, compañero," the human said, switching off the buffing unit, allowing the bladeframe to scramble backwards to freedom. The symbiont’s field broadcast his sparkfelt relief. He’d ended up with his front buffed to a mirror shine, while his hindquarters were still covered in a crackled topcoat that made him look enameled in shimmering gold, less like a mech and more like a carved and cast monument. The half-and-half visual effect was … rather strange, at least to First Aid’s inexpert optics. "I just was learning my way around our shop, you know? Gotta get trained sooner or later, learn what all this shit does."

"Our shop? Our shop!? What part of 'I've been building this shop since your species was swinging in the trees' did your pathetic little wetware processor fail to retain, Raoul?"

"I didn't forget a thing, Tracks. Especially the part where you were babbling about what a sweet deal our contract was, right about the time we finally got your plug all the way up my ass and Tentacles was all over and in you. Did that big electrical storm he give you fry your brain as well as turn you into sleeping-fucking-beauty for three days?" 

A bit worried for the human’s safety, First Aid reset his vocalizer, taking a step forward to intervene in the argument. Tracks jerked in surprise, and seemed to notice him for the first time. The mechanic’s faceplates fell, his field betraying his dismay.

"I... oh Primus, you're here already."

"I'm actually almost an orn later than I said I would be," First Aid said, doing his best to unobtrusively scan the human. 

"Hey, I recognize you," the human said, looking between Tracks and First Aid, a bit of his confidence fading. He sidled closer to Tracks, keeping the bladeframe and hornframe between himself and First Aid. 

Casting Tracks a warning glance, First Aid folded himself down onto his pedes, bringing his height to merely twice the little human’s. “That’s right,” he said, selecting glyphs from the appropriate language file. “I’m here to take a look at you, and make sure you’re all right. Can you come out from behind those mecha, please?”

Raoul’s soft-hided features folded into an angry little frown. “You gonna offer me candy if I get in the car too, hombre? ‘Cause my mama told us what to say to strangers, and it only *started* with ‘no’.” He scooted deliberately behind Ramhorn’s concealing bulk. For his part, the hornframe made no effort to move out of First Aid’s way, levelling an unimpressed stare at the much larger mech, his thick armor effectively muffling the human’s faint biological signs. 

First Aid sat back on his heels. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. Normally humans, while wary, were so relieved to hear someone finally speaking their languages -- beyond the discrete set of commands all owners were provided with, anyway -- that they were usually inclined to be cooperative. The simplest option would be to ask Tracks to hold the little organic for an examination, but First Aid did not wish to cause the human any more distress. Plus he had the distinct impression that would not go over well with the symbionts in the room, who appeared to have taken the human under their protection. The two mechkin were quietly cleaning up some of the multitude of supplies that were out, but their comms were buzzing. The bladeframe deliberately paced closer to the human, as if to support or defend. 

“Raoul is settling in very well,” offered Tracks in Cybertronian, with all the proper modifiers used when addressing a fully-framed medic. First Aid watched as the mechanic deliberately centered himself, settling his plating and calming his field. “As you can see, however, he is still exhibiting the same erratic behavior that caused Kalis to send him away. You’ll probably want to report that to--”

“The human … mentioned a contract?” asked First Aid, tilting his helm in inquiry. Had Tracks actually made a bargain with the little organic? Or was this simply another way to take advantage of the human’s naivete?

"What are they talking about? Rammy, what’re they saying?" First Aid heard the human hiss from behind Ramhorn's bulk before Tracks could answer. "I'm not going back, comprende? Me suicido antes de volver a ese lugar de mierda." 

First Aid's armor flared in alarm; he had to stop himself from physically picking up the human in a desire to protect it from its threat of self-extinguishment. The humans were so fragile, and First Aid had seen first hand the outcome of those who attempted to end their servitude in that manner. The memory of the tiny, empty little frames that had been left behind sent a spike of fear and grief through his spark. 

"Easy, Raoul," Ramhorn responded, lifting his heavily-horned helm. "No one is sending you back anywhere." To First Aid’s surprise, the other large symbiont, the golden bladeframe, moved to lie down beside the human. He even let his engine vibrate and purr like that of a sparkling caretaker, and the human seemed to respond positively to the input, seating itself so that its back rested against the bladeframe’s broad flankplates. The position was obviously familiar to all three of them, as if they had cuddled close many times before.

"No, of course not, Raoul," First Aid added, switching again to the human's language files. "I have no intention of making you go anywhere near Kalis Tower again. But I do bear a responsibility for you, and must ascertain whether you are being adequately cared for by Tracks. Now, you mentioned a contract?"

"Yeah, so? What’s that to you? That's between me and the pendejo."

"Raoul will be a contracted employee of this shop," Tracks stated in the human’s language, his posture upright and his field flaring aggressively, as if daring First Aid to challenge the statement. Apparently Tracks had decided there wasn’t much point in subterfuge, and First Aid could see why. After all, if First Aid didn’t like what he saw, there was nothing Tracks could do to prevent him from reporting his suspicions. Which would mean Lord Kalis would send other mecha to investigate--mecha who were unlikely to be fobbed off with stories of eccentric behavior and mysterious organic contagions. Tracks would need the medic’s cooperation if they were going to pull this off, and First Aid was relieved to see the mechanic was smart enough to realize that.

"He is entitled to thirty percent of the fee charged for his services. This cohort's carrier has agreed to act as his fiscal agent for a one percent cut on the returns. I am also setting up a proper habitation suite to Raoul’s specifications."

"Blaster's gonna even pick up some of the stuff Raoul wanted for his hut on his way back from his broadcast," the blue mechkin added, before being shushed by the gray. 

"Will you be reporting this arrangement to Lord Kalis?" Tracks asked, his tone frigid. 

"No, no--of course not. That is a most remarkable agreement. I will report that Raoul is being adequately cared for, that he still exhibits signs of whatever that caused his aggressive behavior, and will advise Lord Kalis's majordomo to arrange for transfer of ownership. As long as that is truly what Raoul wishes. I had intended, before Tracks intervened, to have you sent to some trusted friends who would not require you to provide... services." 

Tracks spat static in dismay at the offer. First Aid was tempted to do the same -- it was almost frighteningly easy to forget Chronicler symbionts, to say more around them than was prudent. If their carrier decided to disseminate this information.... 

Raoul lifted his helm in surprise; then rocked himself effortlessly up onto his kneeplates with a grace no mech could match. He peered over Ramhorn’s bulk, tiny wet optics meeting First Aid's visored gaze. "Can your friends send me back to Earth?"

"That would not be within their resources, no. Though I wish they could. There have been some complications in the health of the few humans who've been placed in their care -- though not by any wrongdoing on their part. But that is why I intend to continue monitoring you as well, no matter whether you choose to stay here or with them."

Raoul looked over at the visibly-nervous Tracks, then back at the bladeframe and Ramhorn. After a moment, he shook his helm. "Gracias, but I think I'll stick with Sleeping Beauty here. But... could you somehow get my hombres to your friends? Or at least Mason. Is he still alive?"

First Aid nodded reluctantly. “He still functions. But not well. I’m afraid I do not have the training or the hardware to adequately treat him.” He paused, calculating for a moment. “And... I do not believe that Kalis will give up his remaining humans.” He shut off his vocalizer quickly, before he could say any more.

But the human was more perceptive than he had thought. Raoul stiffened, small optics narrowing. “And its only a matter of time before he finds some more, is that it? Mierda.” He rapped his knuckles with a heavy clank against Ramhorn’s side. He glared at First Aid. “You seem like a decent guy. How the hell can you work for that fucked up sleezeball slug?”

First Aid vented, and did his best to sort through that statement. “I... don’t, technically. I’m a member of the medics guild. The guild is paid, and it places healers where it deems necessary.”

The golden bladeframe lifted his head, azure optics intent and thoughtful. “So you owe no duty of loyalty to Kalis?” 

First Aid frowned a little. Medics were bound to many duties and many oaths, and the distinction between duty and none could be extraordinarily fine... but the bladeframe was correct. “No more so than to any damaged mech to whom I’d been assigned,” he hedged. 

Tracks and the bladeframe locked optics. “So...” said the blue mech, “I’ve been thinking. It really isn’t in Lord Kalis’ long-term best interest to even keep humans. An infected human might try to damage him again.” That assertion was a bit of a leap -- a partial untruth about one little human was one thing. What the mechanic obviously wanted to ask First Aid to do ... was quite another. “Besides, don’t you suppose it’s possible that the same virus infecting Raoul might have worked its way into the whole upper level of Kalis Tower? It might have even permeated into the walls and floor... it wouldn’t be safe to keep humans there, ever.” 

First Aid considered that. “They would not likely take the word of a junior medic on such a matter.” In point of fact, Kalis would contact the guildhall, and the most senior medics there. Ratchet... was not a mech to trouble lightly. And yet.... “I will inquire with my guildhall. But how do you propose to keep Kalis from simply disposing of his humans? He certainly won’t give them to me or my friends, not if they might ‘infect’ other stock.”

“I’ll buy them,” said Raoul abruptly. “And anyone else you can get those fuckers to give up. You can tell them we’re doing some sort of a quarantine here. Doing them a service, practically, taking the humans off their hands.” He suddenly looked a bit hesitant, and leaned in close to Ramhorn’s audial. “...think Tentacles could loan me some of those credit things?” 

"Raoul, there are probably fifty or more humans on the upper levels of Tower Kalis. Even at an extreme discount--" First Aid's field compressed miserably. He helped when and where he could--but usually never more than one or two at a time. Never enough. There had to be something more they could do. But a medic’s core coding was far too pragmatic for him to be anything but forthright about the full extent of the situation. "You can’t take them all in--if there are too many humans here, the wrong mecha will start asking questions. Besides, if word gets out about any sort of infection, it'll put Tracks out of business." 

"Blaster says you don't have to worry on that, at least," the blue mechkin interjected. "Kalis won’t want any rumors spreading that might affect their own terran imports; they won't be spreading word about an 'unsubstantiated' infection. And if anyone else tries to spread rumors, well, if the Voice of Kalis doesn't broker the data--"

"--the data might as well not even exist," the gray mechkin said, and then engaged his class-brother in some odd fist-bumping and hand-slapping ritual. 

First Aid's spark spun a little faster with the first glimmerings of hope. That … might just work. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he at least had more allies now, and good ones. His friends would certainly be pleased. A Chronicler cohort as highly placed as this one, and sympathetic to the plight of the humans, would be invaluable. They almost seemed to have adopted Raoul as one of their own, and he wondered if Tracks was aware of the significance -- and danger -- involved in that. But if First Aid could get Ratchet to take an interest, maybe, eventually, word would filter to the Prime himself. And then....

"I'll do what I can," he promised. "If I overstep, I'll be dismissed and won't be in a position to help any of them. The xenomedic whom Kalis employed believes Mason should be euthanized. I'll try to get him sent somewhere safe, to someone more willing to try to help. I'll also try to get word to some of the humans that they should consider exhibiting 'infected' behavior -- but without doing anything that could get them killed or damaged." He gave Raoul a stern look. The little human returned it with interest, crossing its arms across its chassis.

“If you’re expecting me to apologize, you can forget it. Fucker had it coming.”

First Aid turned his attention to Tracks, trying to estimate just how much of an ally--versus how much of an opportunist--the mechanic really was. Fewer humans available for private use in Kalis Tower could be quite a boon for his own business, especially when it came to private bookings. At least humans seemed safe with the mechanic. "I'll let slip to the majordomo that Tracks seems to have a successful technique for partially rehabilitating those with the infection, and might be interested in taking a few more for a heavy discount. I don't have a lot of credits, but I can add my own to help make that happen." 

"I'm not running a charity, here," Tracks warned haughtily. "This is a business." 

"Tracks, compañero, I promise you, me and my hombres are gonna be very, *very* good for your business," Raoul said. 

 

\----

 

“You seem uneasy,” Steeljaw said, forepaws lightly flexing against the thick metalmesh carpeting. He’d not realized that humans were just as adept at climbing as mechkin -- but Raoul managed the table-leg rungs without much difficulty. Now, the human stood atop the luxuriously padded workbench, the better to survey the public areas of the bodyshop. In the back, Tracks had cleaned himself, and was contacting his best clients to offer an exclusive booking. Steeljaw could feel the delight in the big mech’s field all the way out here. 

“‘Course I am,” said Raoul, coming to the edge to peer down. He backed up a step. The tabletop was at least twelve feet wide and three times as long, but it was also a good ten feet off the floor. “My mates are all still there, stuck in tiny cages. Do you know how much I wanted to run, just to move around? I dreamed about it. Now I dream about... never mind.” He snapped his mouth shut, with a sharp shake of his head, and eyed Steeljaw. “Look, whaddya think about you and me breaking in somehow, and then--”

“Raoul.” Steeljaw stood, stretched himself, and leaped to the tabletop with a single effortless spring. “We would not get inside. We might not even make it across the city, before someone tried to steal you. I am very sorry.” 

“Fuck.” Raoul sat down hard, scrubbing his hand over his facial parts. 

Steeljaw padded close and laid down, curling himself around the distraught little human. “Tracks and First Aid will do all they can. Their plan will work.”

“Yeah? What if it doesn’t?”

Steeljaw pressed his muzzle lightly against the human’s shoulder, glossy-slick plating warmed to the human’s preferred temperature. “Then I will contact friends who are much better at stealth, and we will try another way.” Which could get him into a world of trouble--but he’d do it anyway. 

Raoul sighed and let himself relax against the heavy plating of Steeljaw’s side. Hard to imagine that just, what? Four days ago? He’d have been worried about these massive paws, or long teeth. He reached up to rub the bladeframe’s audials and scritch his cheek and throat, and grinned as the big cat started purring again. Slipping a gear, whatever. Sure as hell sounded like purring to him. He wriggled a little to settle his back more firmly against Steeljaw’s side. As always, his skin warmed, and then tingled, with more than just the heat of the plates there. 

Steeljaw curled himself a little more tightly, and reached out with lazy strength to capture Raoul’s leg in a big-cat hug. Raoul grinned. “You keep that up, hombre, and you’re gonna have to finish what you start.”

"I should hope so. And when are you finishing what you started?" Steeljaw's tail tapped against his absurdly half-buffed hindquarters. "Without the ridiculous buffer unit." 

“You don’t look that bad, yanno. Just needs to be more, uh, even. Really sets off your mane.”

“My mane does not require any setting off,” Steeljaw said, giving the wafer-thin blades a shake. They’d been thoroughly disheveled in the rotor-buffer, and only now were beginning to fall correctly into place. 

At least the sensors on his tailtip had suffered no insult. He brought them to Raoul's face, tracing ever-so-delicately down the impossibly soft skin on the side of his cheek and neck, over his laryngeal prominence, to the soft divot above his sternum. He could feel the pulse and rush of living, alien fuel, the tiny, brilliantly coordinated muscular movements as Raoul swallowed. Which only served to remind Steeljaw of just how conductive that saliva was, how novel and alien. With a louder rumble from his engine, he nuzzled Raoul's pede where he still grasped his leg, and lapped at those strange little toes with his stiff, wiry glossa.

Raoul jerked his pede back. "Tickles! Bad pussy cat!"

"Serves you right," Steeljaw said, his tail continuing its journey down Raoul's chest, teasing one of the tiny nozzles that, thankfully, was not leaking organic fuel. He still wasn’t entirely certain he believed Raoul’s claim that the nipple was vestigial -- would Raoul really know if he were one of these ‘females’? Raoul shivered and hummed as small bumps appeared on the darker circle of skin, like tiny decorative glyphs, directing attention to the raised sensor node. 

"You're not gonna make me hurry and start buffing you, doing that," Raoul warned, batting away Steeljaw's tail and rocking up gracefully to his knees to inspect the plating on the bladeframe's aft. The human's hands made no illusion of the fact that they were groping, sliding deeper between armor plates and stroking sensor beds beneath. Raoul was putting himself firmly back into control, Steeljaw noted in a fond glyph shared with his surreptitiously observing cohort. Which was more than understandable, and something they could give to Raoul in a way few others could or would. 

Steeljaw found that he relished the moments when Raoul gave that control away, however. It was impossibly sweet, to be trusted by someone so small and fragile. The third time they'd interfaced, he'd carefully held the human down, caging Raoul under gentle paws, while Rewind and Eject prepared Steeljaw's connector and Raoul's amazing little port. The mechkin took a maddeningly long time to push Steeljaw's cable inside, while Raoul writhed and gasped and begged them to 'get on with it'. The experience had certainly been worthy of a treasured place in Steeljaw’s spark -- he suspected it would be his favorite interface memory to share for a good megavorn or more. 

Mmm. Raoul’s fingers were as flexible as Blaster’s cilia. And while they weren’t as long and didn’t carry any charge, it was just impossibly good to feel physical input isolated like this. There was something so simple and pure about the massage. “My hindquarters have itched for joors,” Steeljaw prompted. “I do not believe that enamel was meant for full-frame application.” 

“Maybe,” said Raoul, “but you look damn fine in it anyway. Maybe we just need to play with the application solvent. Where does it itch? Here?” Raoul dug his nails into the seam of Steeljaw’s thigh, scritching away the clinging enamel. It felt heavenly, a brilliant sensation of relief. “Or here?” Those sly little fingers found the seam around his primary interface panel, between his abdominal plates, and -- oh, Primus below. 

Steeljaw invented hard. “T-that definitely seems... seems to be the worst spot,” he managed, static building in his vocalizer. 

Raoul grinned, dentae flashing. “It is, is it? Next time, I’ll bring along one of those little brushes. In the meantime....” contorting himself in a way that still made Steeljaw nervous -- what mech could move like *that*? -- Raoul twisted, bent down... and swiped his glossa over the roughly enameled surface. 

Distantly, Steeljaw was glad he did not have many antigrav nodes. He probably would have levitated right off this table, which would have been awkward, since there was no place he’d rather be than right *here.* Each stroke of Raoul’s glossa pressed new salts and moisture against his plating, while sending a thousand tiny vibrations through his sensitive hardware. And still Raoul’s nails traced the outer edge of the panel, scritching against the rough coating, harder counterpoint to the unspeakably soft glossa. Every move, every touch was just so unpredictable, different every time...

A sound escaped him, a high metal whine that Steeljaw had never, in all his megavorn, heard from his own vocalizer. He had to try twice to restart the device. “R-Raoul, I--”

The human looked up, grinned. “Yeah, open up for me, hermano.”

Nothing could have kept Steeljaw from obeying. Tiny gears whirred, slatting back the covering of the panel to expose the cabletip housed there. Raoul made an appreciative noise, and curled his fingers around the tip. 

Steeljaw had a kind of interface jack that Raoul feared from the big mecha -- a club shape, with smooth globular head attached to straight, thick shaft. The ball at the tip could be so damn big.... Steeljaw’s, though, was a quarter the size of those, and many times more enjoyable. Raoul leaned in closer and gave the tip a long, appreciative lick, letting his tongue trace all the finely engraved lines and markings that chased the surface of the jack.

"I had this idea," Raoul murmured between licks. He took the tip in his mouth and sucked hard enough to make Steeljaw's *spark* flare, his nimble glossa dancing against the swirling markings there. He pulled off again and spoke with his lips directly on the jack, so that they brushed maddeningly with every word. "How 'bout you keep it partially sheathed and locked, at least at first, and push it into me yourself with your body. Maybe in and out, the way I like to push my cock into your hermanos' hands." 

Steeljaw struggled to free up a thread with which to process that exceedingly strange request. “Th--won’t that hurt you?” he managed at last, vents blown wide. Friction was a leading cause of port replacement. And if Raoul’s port wore out, how in the world would they replace it? He was certain that Tracks didn’t keep a stock of them in back. 

Raoul jerked in a contained little laugh, grinning against the warm metal of the jack. “Definitely not. If I need you to slow down or something, I’ll tell you, kay?” 

“A-alright,” Steeljaw agreed, optics shuttering, forepaws flexing and kneading into the surface of the detailing table. He quivered as Raoul opened his mouth wide to take the head entirely inside his mouth, suckling, scraping with his teeth. Steeljaw felt like his core might be melting. A sudden thought drifted to the actionable region of his neural net, and his optics snapped open. “Raoul! I must... must go retrieve a lubricant--”

Raoul took a few moments to slip the jack from his mouth, letting it leave his lips with a wet pop. “Whaddya think I’ve been doing, Aslan? You're wet enough, and I’m still nice and slick inside from Rammy, not to mention everyone else. I think Eject stuck half a canister up there getting me ready for Tentacles, and it takes, like, days for that stuff to fully absorb. I want this....”

And the human really did. Raoul’s arousal was already making his strange alien field gather around him, a vividly powerful sense of potential, rippling and dancing over Steeljaw's sensornet. Steeljaw nodded, unable even to find words in the face of that need. 

Finding the right position took several tries. But with Raoul's body just trembling in barely-contained excitement, nothing was going to keep the bladeframe from figuring this out. Finally Raoul took a position on his underchassis, head resting on his arms, his knees bent and legs spread wide, aft raised high. Steeljaw stepped over him, supporting himself with elbow joints on the table above Raoul's head so as not to crush the human. He looked between his forelegs, venting hot air into Raoul's soft, feathery hair, nuzzling it. With his back hunched to the maximum his tensors allowed, Steeljaw brought his glistening jack, jutting midabdomen from its sheath, to Raoul's port. It took some awkward circular movements, and several adjustments on Raoul's part, but finally his tip found the slick little hole. 

Steeljaw pressed in, just as Rewind had when he’d guided the bladeframe inside before. Raoul gasped under him, the scent of organic arousal spiking, and rocked forward -- a tiny bit too much, shifting the knob of Steeljaw’s cabletip out of alignment. The bladeframe nuzzled Raoul’s shoulder, the back of his neck. “Let me...?”

Shivering, Raoul nodded blindly, and Steeljaw shifted his weight onto one elbow. Talons sheathed, the bladeframe worked his free forepaw down and under Raoul’s torso, hugging him, holding him carefully against Steeljaw’s heavy chest plates. Raoul’s ventilations came in rapid panting breaths, a quiet whine building in his throat. “Yes, yes, please yes --” 

Alert for any sign of distress, Steeljaw tried again, hips hunching, deliberately slow, carefully adjusting Raoul against himself so he could sink in, little by little. Primus, Raoul was right. This was amazing, to be the one pushing in, to feel Raoul bear down and open up around him, crying out in response to his own movements. Even when interfacing with other mecha, Steeljaw was rarely the one to guide his plug in, due to his lack of manipulative digits. He could use his tail or mouth, in an awkward fashion, but it had never really seemed important.

Not until now. This act, so stunningly physical, was fundamentally different than establishing a data connection. The softness of skin over sinewy muscle, delicate spine and bones against the hardness of his abdomen, the pure sensation of it all was incendiary.

A tiny bit more pressure, the port tight as a silver band around him, and then the head of him, the thinly shielded sensory cilia protected only by the thinnest layer of metal, sank into *heat*. So right, just molding to his shape, gripping every part of him, softer than any protometal. Always, always so good. Unable to help himself, Steeljaw pushed in a little more, the straight thick shaft of him slipping more easily into Raoul’s grasping little port. It seemed impossible that any creature could be so tight and still take him, but Raoul just gasped for more, twisting, trying to push himself back against the penetration. All too soon, the softness of Raoul’s aft was pressed against the bladeframe’s abdominal plates.

Steeljaw found himself rocking his hips in a tiny rhythm. Out a bit, in a little more, each time pulling Raoul to himself even as he pushed in, each time making Raoul cry out and curse. The friction was so strange, so slick, but it didn’t hurt him... and it certainly didn’t seem to be hurting Raoul. He adjusted his grip again, so Raoul's own organic plug could rub against his paw, leaving a wet streak on his plating.

Raoul squealed and twisted, trying to repeat that contact, finally finding the angle that would let him rub himself over the plates of Steeljaw’s paw, even as the bladeframe penetrated him again and again. Twice, Steeljaw withdrew entirely, just to feel that glorious tightness as the human writhed around the ball at the head of him, as it finally popped wetly out. Raoul just sobbed for it, struggling to drive himself back and getting nowhere, until Steeljaw relented and pushed himself back inside... slowly, to savor the resistance, the eventual give. 

No mech would have tolerated such wear on his socket. But each penetration seemed only to wind Raoul tighter. The sensation of Raoul’s field potential, normally so strong, just kept deepening, kept expanding. “Please, please let me --” wobbling, Raoul tried to reach for his cock, tried to stroke himself.

“Not yet,” growled Steeljaw, against the back of Raoul’s neck. With a whimper, Raoul pushed his clenched fists against the surface of the berth, saltwater liberally coating his skin. He panted like a bellows, venting hard, crying out. Steeljaw gave a slightly harder thrust, rocking Raoul, seating himself to the base inside that stunningly tight body. Fully impaled, Steeljaw unfolded the microscopic transformation seams at the tip of him, freeing the sensory cilia there to flood inside, deeper still. So tight, so hot and wet, just filling the little organic....

With a thundering roar, Steeljaw pushed a complex datapacket over the hardline. 

Raoul howled as he came. And this time, when his field burst into magnificently chaotic light, the waveform was so large it swamped Steeljaw’s entire field. 

\----

It took a good hour to finally exhaust even Steeljaw’s stamina. And to be honest, Raoul’s as well. Not that he'd ever admit to it. With a heavy forepaw slung over his waist, Raoul wasn’t going anywhere soon -- and seriously didn’t want to. He closed his eyes again, just floating in the afterglow. Jesus, he was ready to confess his love to the fucking cat and ask to have his babies. Little cussing, purring metal kittens who'd be so good looking they'd make the girl robots cry. Were there any girl robots? Who the hell knew? Maybe Blaster was a robot mama. 

"That was as pretty as they come," a smooth baritone crooned. Raoul opened one eye to blink at Tentacles, who was leaning casually against the table and looking down on them with what the robots paraded around as a smile - more a thing of subtle body language than an actual grin.

"Mmnuh," Raoul replied with great intelligence, when his brain decided it had pretty much forgotten how to work his mouth, thank you very much. Words were overrated, anyhow, Raoul thought, snuggling even closer between Steeljaw's forelegs, his back against the warm metal of his chest plating. 

Hard to tell if he’d drifted off, but eventually Steeljaw moved a little. Raoul opened his eyes to find that Blaster's freakazoid hands and weird-ass tentacles had gone to work on the half-finished buffing. Steeljaw started to rumble and vibrate. Pussy claimed he wasn't purring. Yeah, right. "You there the whole time?" he finally asked. 

"Got part of it through my gang's sensor feeds, but saw the finale with my own six optics," Blaster said. 

"Such a fucking voyeur," Raoul said fondly. 

"Whole cohort of voyeurs, baby, and don't you forget it," Blaster said, then leaned lower until his mouth was right by Raoul's ear. "You gonna be okay when we have to go?" he whispered, barely more than subvocalizing. "One or more of us will come around, often as we can. But you change your mind, and I'll take you with us, any time."

"I'm a tough son of a bitch, Tentacles. I wanna do more than just survive, comprende? If I make some serious dough, I can really do something about this shit. Just... send ‘Jaw here for some TLC as much as you can. You know how he gets when his ass ain't shiny enough."

Raoul closed his eyes again, not minding a bit when one of those tentacles caressed his face and chest. It felt really fucking good to have some amigos, even if they were weird ass aliens.

"You're never gonna be alone here," Blaster whispered. "My guys have been bugging this place top to bottom while they clean. One of us fucking voyeurs is always gonna be monitoring."

Raoul grinned, trying to cover up the lump in his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had treated him as anything other than … well, merchandise. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Love you too, you freaky tentacle voyeur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter, we gleefully welcome new collaborator, Sakiku, who is more kinds of awesome than you can count. Make sure to check out her other stories she has started posting on Ao3. She is an amazing writer.


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